


Long Game

by Carmarthen



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: 16th Century CE, Cousin Incest, Cousins, Crack, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Family Dynamics, Italy, M/M, Pre-Canon, Renaissance Era, Rivalry, Sex Rankings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4545375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris has a little red book, and Mercutio wants to know what's in it.</p><p>In a totally casual, nonchalant way, of course.</p><p>(Cousins can be <i>so</i> annoying.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).



> This is entirely Miss M's fault. We were discussing how sleazy proshot Paris in the Hungarian musical would be exactly the kind of person to keep a book ranking all his sexual partners on prowess.
> 
> That one time I wrote [Mercutio Does Verona](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1095747). This is sort of Paris Does Verona. There are a lot of implied Paris pairings in this, mostly of a cracky nature. Paris and Mercutio are cousins, and they do have offscreen sex here, so be aware of that. Also imagining this Paris marrying Julia may be particularly offputting (rest assured he doesn't).

Mercutio was already half-asleep when he heard the scratch of an ill-trimmed pen on paper, interfering with his plans for a pleasant post-coital doze in someone else's far more luxurious bed. All things considered, it hadn't been a bad afternoon - a surprisingly good one. But now he wanted a nap before supper, and the scratch-scratch itched at his ears like the whine of a gnat.

"If you must work," he muttered, "can you not do it elsewhere?"

The scratching paused for a moment, then continued. "My apologies, cousin," Paris said, in that oiled way he had, "an urgent memorandum."

He was writing steadily in a little book bound in scarlet calfskin, the corners and clasp of worked brass. Mercutio could not see the pattern without getting up, an activity he was loathe to partake in.

He let his head fall back against the pillow - stuffed with goose down, the case of the finest Indian cotton, smoother than linen and cool to the touch in the heat of summer. Paris had expensive tastes and an eye for the best.

At last Paris closed the book, locking the clasp with a tiny key on a chain around his neck, and setting it in a drawer of his writing table, which he locked with a second key. Mercutio eyed him through half-closed eyelids, trying not to look too interested. Anything Paris locked up so carefully had to be intriguing, business or no; and what could have brought business to his mind so quickly after their earlier activities?

But he was awake now, and Paris had dropped his dressing-robe to the floor and slipped back under the covers, clever hands already roaming southwards, and Mercutio soon forgot entirely about the little red book. For all that Paris was stuffy and a prig, he was rather pleasantly inventive in bed and not nearly so annoying when his mouth was occupied.

* * *

All Verona had spoken of nothing but Pollonia Trivisana, the Lark from Trevino, for weeks, and Mercutio was heartily sick of her; her Sofonisba had been a melodramatic catastrophe—although to be fair, so had the play itself—and there was something rather offputting about one’s lord uncle mooning around calf-eyed after an actress half his age.

When he spotted Paris taking her by the dainty elbow in the palace gardens, bending his head towards hers to murmur softly in her ear, his first thought was relief. If Paris was moving in, that meant his uncle had lost interest; the bloom was off the rose, and soon she’d move on to greener pastures.

It wasn’t until he saw Paris take a little red book out of his purse at dinner and scribble something in it with a pencil that he had second thoughts, and third thoughts.

“Dear cousin.” Mercutio leaned across the table, easing his hand quietly closer to Paris’ book. “Surely business can wait until after dinner.”

A faint flush appeared in Paris’s cheeks, and he closed the book with a snap, tucking it away in his purse again without locking it. Curse him. “Ah, you know how my memory is.”

“Like a camel’s,” said Mercutio, who had occasionally paid attention in his Greek lessons. Judging by the blank expression on Paris’ face, he had not. “What could be so important?”

“Only something that Signorina Trivisana mentioned earlier,” Paris said, meeting his eyes with the ease of a practiced liar.

“In the orangery.”

“No, in the—cousin, your meat grows cold; you will insult the cook if you do not eat it.”

_What was in that book?_

* * *

Paris had returned from the Capulet house reeling drunk and in remarkably good humor; such good humor, in fact, that he did not look suspicious when Mercutio slung a friendly arm around his shoulders. Ha, he smelled of Lady Capulet’s favorite Hungary water, a scent that faintly stirred Mercutio’s blood with pleasant memory—well, if theft was not the answer, perhaps seduction would do the trick—he could feign sleep, after, and when Paris took out the book—

“What are you after, little cousin?” Paris removed Mercutio’s hands from his person with impeccable but implacable care, his gaze altogether too sharp and knowing for a man who seemed to have drunk half a cellar. “I wonder…no, I am afraid that is an experiment I won’t be repeating. Good night, Mercutio. I can see myself to bed.”

* * *

_Benvolio._ Mercutio shook his head, not sure whether to be disgusted or grudgingly impressed with Paris’ powers of persuasion; he himself had been teasing Benvolio for years, stealing kisses and smacking his arse and flirting outrageously at every opportunity. Benvolio had taken it all with equanimity and never showed a hint of interest in anyone but the women of Verona.

 _Paris!_ It was almost offensive.

 _I really, really don’t want to talk about it,_ Benvolio had said, clutching his aching head. _Especially not with you._ Mercutio had taken pity on him. It wasn’t as if he had any moral high ground in this area.

Although...he turned on his heel and stuck his head back into Benvolio’s room, ignoring the piteous groan from the bed. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to repeat it? I need someone to distract my dear cousin so I can steal his diary.”

“Fuck off.” For someone as drunk as Benvolio was, his throwing arm was still pretty good. Mercutio barely managed to duck out the door before a cup shattered against it on the other side.

Well, it had been worth a try.

* * *

“ _Julia_ Capulet? I didn’t think your tastes ran towards lamb, cousin.”

Paris shrugged, not bothering to look up from his desk. Actual business tonight, it seemed, or at least correspondence; the thrice-bedamned red book was nowhere in sight. “It’s as good a time to marry as any; she’s of good family—” Certainly, if you didn’t mind a sanguinary disposition towards bloody vengeance, Mercutio supposed. “—pretty, quite charming, really.”

“ _You,_ marrying an innocent.”

This time Paris’ smile carried enough lechery to set a nun on fire. “Everyone starts out innocent, dear cousin; even you were, once. What a man wants in a wife is not always the same as what he wants at other times. At least I am doing my duty by the family; when may we expect _your_ marriage?”

Mercutio bared his teeth, but did not bother to dignify that dig with a verbal response. Sparring with Paris was tedious and always came around to the insufficiency of his sense of duty.

“At any rate, Capulets are...entertaining.”

That, Mercutio had to concede him; at least the Lady Capulet was an experience, if one could talk her away from bright lights and into some secluded corner. She kept to the letter of her wedding vows, to be sure, but had mastered all adjacent arts, and practiced them with enthusiasm—

“ _Capulets?_ Paris, you—don’t tell me you fucked Tybalt Capulet?”

“A gentleman doesn’t divulge these sordid little details,” said Paris primly, a smirk hovering around the corners of his mouth.

Mercutio snorted. “As if you were a gentleman in anything but name. God’s blood, _how_ did you convince him to take the stick out of his arse long enough?”

“All I shall say is that I have you to thank, dearest cousin.”

He was not envious, not in the slightly, nor curious. There was nothing to be curious about; whatever his irritating cousin and mortal enemy had done in bed—or an alley, Satan only knew—it held no interest for him. “I despise you,” said Mercutio, with a smile.

“And I regard you with all the love owed to a kinsman,” said Paris, smooth as a snake slithering through butter.

Mercutio would get ahold of that damned book if it was his last act on Earth.

* * *

In the end, it proved as simple as bribing Paris’ manservant, although the man charged him dear for it.

Between those scarlet covers, provided he could read Paris’ hand, lay all the answers—if he wished to know most of all what Paris had written about him, he only slightly less wished to know what he said of others.

The lock was trivial to pick, but a moment’s work with a stolen hairpin; the book fell open at once, as if to a well-worn page, densely covered with black ink.

A passerby in the hall might have heard a strangled shout of rage; or perhaps they might not. Mercutio’s door was thick.

 _Code._ That insufferable coxcomb had written the cursed thing in code.

* * *

“Why, Mercutio.” Paris looked up as the book fell to the table in front of him with a thud. “Had you wanted to know what I thought of you, you only needed to ask.”

“An experiment you won’t be repeating,” Mercutio gritted, stung despite himself. “You mentioned.”

“True, but not because you didn’t receive full marks at backgammon. Ten out of ten, dear cousin. I particularly enjoyed that thing you did with your—”

* * *

The palace was very large. Mercutio supposed it was entirely possible to never speak to his odious cousin again. 

He certainly meant to try.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I had Escalus enamored of a bad actress playing Sofonisba in “[the two hours’ traffic of our stage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3162689),” but this story doesn’t fit in the same continuity. I just find making up new background characters unnecessary.
> 
> 2\. “A camel never forgets an injury” is apparently a Greek proverb, although I don’t know how old.
> 
> 3\. Graphite pencils were invented in late 16th century England, which is good enough for me when it comes to this fandom.
> 
> 4\. Hungary water was an alcohol-based perfume composed of of rosemary, rosewater, orange flower water, verbena, and mint, popular from at least 1370 into the 18th century.
> 
> 5\. I don’t think _Rómeó és Júlia_ Benvolio reads as all that straight but, um, maybe it’s GAM’s Benvolio, he’s probably the straightest.
> 
> 6\. "Playing backgammon" is probably my favorite historical euphemism for gay sex.
> 
> 7\. Mercutio does a great job of avoiding Paris at the Capulet ball, iirc the only scene they really share. This seems as good a reason as any.
> 
> 8\. Hungarian Paris actually has a lakeside estate of his own, apparently, but maybe he stays at his uncle's when he's in town, IDK.
> 
> 9\. Probably about as accurate to 16th century Italy as Shakespeare, I guess.


End file.
